


Case Closed

by MdeCarabas



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Ghosts, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding missing cats for little girls isn't exactly the glamorous life he hoped for when he became a private investigator, but Tucker is nothing if not flexible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Case File No. 13 - The Case of the Missing Cat

 _Client:_ Maria McDonald  
_Date Opened:_ 5/23/16  
_Date Closed:_

Summary: Teresa McDonald wants me to look for her missing cat.

 

WITNESS STATEMENT

Teresa McDonald:

I was playing with Mrs. Saltlick outside and she got mad at me for hugging her so she ran away into the street and almost got hit by a car and now we can’t find her. I brought a picture of her, plus the mouse she always plays with. Maybe she’ll come out if she sees it?

 

NOTES

Teresa’s mom is pretty fucking hot.

       [1] Written on a post-it note attached to the file: _Shyeaah, y do u think I asked her out!? I <3 MILFs lol!!_

 

Tucker closes the case file with a frown. Finding missing cats for little girls isn't exactly the glamorous life he hoped for when he became a private investigator, but Tucker is nothing if not flexible.

Seriously. You can ask any of his exes. They'll testify to that shit.

One of those exes in particular hops up to sit on the desk next to him in order to get a peek at the name on the folder. “Oh!” she says, brightening when she succeeds. “You're working on that cat case for Hot Mom? Cool. Do you think you’ll be able to find it?”

“Hell yeah,” Tucker agrees. “I'm great at finding pussy!”

Kai's whole face lights up when she smiles. She leans in as if about to tell him a secret and inadvertently gives him a good look down her shirt. “Ooh, so am I!” she exclaims. “Do you think that makes me a psychic, too?”

Tucker's eyes dart up and away from the sight. “Maybe,” he says magnanimously. The things she can do with her tongue sure seemed supernatural back in high school. In fact, it's one of the things he missed most following their decision to remain friends.

And now he's her employer. Funny how that happens.

He leans back in his cushy office chair with a satisfied sigh. “This is gonna be the easiest hundred dollars I've ever made.”

Kai wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, but that's still not gonna pay the rent.”

Tucker makes a face at the reminder. He's still two months behind on his rent for his office and the only reason he hasn't been kicked out yet is because the landlord owes him a favor for stopping a poltergeist that had been terrorizing the building for years. Still, all that goodwill is gonna run out eventually.

Kai suddenly sits up straight. As Tucker watches, the mental projection of a light bulb being switched on appears over her head, a common occurrence for people who have watched way too many cartoons growing up.

Tucker waits for her to share her bright idea.

“Why don't you ask the cops for a job?” she suggests. “I mean, like, they _suck_ , but still, they do that all the time on TV.” Her feet thump noisily against the desk drawers, the sound of it making a vein in his head twitch to the beat. He can't tell if his oncoming headache is because of that or because of her suggestion.

Oh, who is he kidding? It's definitely because of the cop thing. Which is why Tucker is so quick to voice his dismay. “I'm not gonna go ask Wash,” he tells her plaintively. “The dude _hates_ me! He once tried to have me arrested for _fraud_!”

Kai snorts. “Uh, _yeah._ That's ‘cause he's a cop and you're just this weird guy who likes to tell everyone that he's psychic.”

Tucker crosses his arms. “Because I _am._ ”

“But he doesn't know that!” she points out. “He just thinks you're a fake like that guy on that show. He doesn't know you can read minds for real!”

He waves his hands in the air, silently telling her to keep her voice down. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to speak wild arm-flailing, if the blank look she gives him is any indication. Finally, he gives up on that and settles for using words like a normal person.

“Shhh!” he tells her anxiously. “No one needs to know that part!”

She scrunches up her nose in confusion.

Tucker sighs. “Look, people are so much cooler when they think I just talk to ghosts and get visions and shit. Once they learn about the other thing, they tend to freak the fuck out. It's better if nobody— _especially_ Wash—figures out that I can, y’know. Do the thing.”

“Okay,” Kai replies. “But what's that got to do with getting a job?”

“Didn't you just hear about the fraud thing?”

Kai rolls her eyes so hard that Tucker's surprised they don't fall right out of her head. “Shyeaah, whatever. There are other cops that you can talk to. Like one who isn't a total narc.”

“Wash isn't a narc!” he says a little too defensively. He flushes when her surprisingly canny gaze turns toward him. For a moment, it's like _she's_ the telepath, and every thought he has is on display for her amusement. “I just mean...he's a detective, alright? He detects stuff.”

Kai grins gleefully, a sudden spike of mischief running through her. He can see it in her eyes, but also with _his_ eyes, visions of bouncy vegetables fluttering through the air the way it always does when she's thinking about sex.

He doesn't know why. He's not sure he _wants_ to. Regardless, it means he's entirely prepared for when she finally speaks and asks, “Then how come he can't detect how much you wanna bone him!?”

She's got a point. Washington may be great at his job, but he _sucks_ when it comes to noticing the obvious. Tucker’s spent a whole year trying to get his attention, but all the euphemisms and all the flirting in the world won't do shit if the person can't see something right in front of their eyes.

Unless Wash was just _pretending_ not to notice.

... _shit._

Thankfully, Kai interrupts his train of thought before it can derail and destroy everything. “But then,” she muses, “you're kind of like a detective, right? And you still can't figure out that he wants to bone you, too.”

Tucker sits up so fast he nearly falls off his chair. “Whaaat?” he yelps, drawing out the symbols as much as he can. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

She rolls her eyes again. “Duh. He always stares at your ass when you're walking away,” she points out, which is flattering, but not really conclusive evidence. Plenty of people stare at his ass. It's no different from admiring any other work of art. “And Dakota says he's always complaining about you at work, saying you're always getting in the way and that you're such a pain in the butt....”

“Yeah, can we move back to the part where he stares at my ass?”

Kai just laughs.

After a moment, Tucker gives up with a groan. “Okay, _maybe_ ,” he says grudgingly. “ _Maybe_ he wants to bang me ‘til the break of dawn.” He covers his ears when she squeals. “I said maybe!”

But Kai isn't listening. Instead, she hops off the desk and starts doing her happy dance, arms held high over her head, all the while babbling something about shopping trips and makeovers and getting a girl pregnant to make Wash jealous.

Tucker makes a face at her and purposely moves his gaze to the computer monitor, grabbing it eagerly and twisting it around to show her the folder again. “Yeah, sorry, but I've got to go rescue kittens or some shit. You know, detective stuff.”

She snickers at him in open amusement, but he does his best to ignore her as he stands up and strides over to the hook where his teal jacket hangs. He puts it on with a flourish and tugs it straight, glancing at his reflection in the glass on the door to make sure he looks good before he goes out into the world.

“Alright,” he says after he's done preening. “I’ll be back by lunchtime. Want me to bring you back something to eat?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” she responds eagerly. “Like, the biggest hamburger I can fit in my mouth—and trust me, I can fit a lot of meat in there!”

That's too easy, even for Tucker, so he just nods and heads out with a wave, letting the door click shut behind him. Then, on second thought, he goes back inside, waving Kai off before she can ask him what's up. “Forgot the goods,” he explains offhandedly. He opens up his desk and pulls out two objects to help him along the way: one a picture and the other a toy.

He stares at them for a long moment, debating which one to take with him. The picture of the cat is good for visions, but the mouse is better for straight out tracking, though neither of them will do shit if he’s not in the right frame of mind. Still, he grabs the toy regardless of his own vague doubts and takes two deep breaths while focusing on it. Immediately, he feels a tug in his gut, pushing him...shit, he _thinks_ it's west, but he's not a fucking nerd or anything, so he’ll just say it’s to his left.

Distracted, he makes his way out of the building, following a trail that only he can see. He follows it down the block and around the corner, and then he follows it straight for another ten minutes before having to make a turn again. He keeps going from there, winding a path around the concrete streets until—

“Hey, buddy! Can't you read? It says ‘ _Do Not Cross!’”_

Tucker's head snaps up. Blearily, he looks around, only to see a crowd around him where there was none before. They're all looking at something Tucker’s too short to see; an accident, maybe, or some kind of incident, or even something like a…

The jumbled thoughts in everyone’s mind suddenly becomes clear. There's a person drawn in chalk in one, and orange jumpsuits in another. A police officer here. An ambulance there. Dozens of graves and closed caskets.

There's been a murder.

And if his luck is as bad as he thinks it is, there's only one detective in the entire district who would be covering this case:

David. Fucking. Washington.

How Tucker keeps finding his way to Wash’s crime scenes is a genuine mystery, and one that he may never solve. All he knows is that the second he steps out the house or goes for a walk, he's 70% sure he's going to bump into Washington, odds that seem to increase with each passing month that goes by.

But not today.

Today, Tucker's got a job to do.

The cop that reprimanded him doesn't seem to have gotten a good look at Tucker, which is the only saving grace in this whole business. It gives Tucker the opportunity to make himself even smaller than he actually is, ducking down as he makes his way through the crowd and constantly keeping the crime scene to the right as he walks.

There's only one problem with that plan: from there, the path begins to thin, enough so that Tucker is out in the open. They’ll be no hiding from anybody there. Anyone and everyone will see him once he takes a few steps forward. But since there is nothing he can do about it, he just keeps his gaze trained on the sidewalk ground and crosses his fingers that he won't be noticed.

Unfortunately, when he finally peeks out, it's to the sight of Wash looking dead at him. Tucker jolts at the sight and fights the urge to back away at what he sees. As always, the man is carrying around an invisible stop sign that flashes in and out of existence at random intervals, silently warding Tucker off before he can get near.

Tucker, as per usual, decides to ignore it.

“Hey, Wash!” he calls as he weren't just hiding.

He waves at Washington, ignoring the other officers who immediately turn to snicker and nudge each other when they see him there. Being the town psychic doesn't exactly make him popular, but luckily Tucker doesn't give a shit what other people think of him. Not anymore. Not after so many years on the job. So he just keeps his chin up and mentally gives them all the finger.

A few of the more sensitive officers flinch back without knowing why. Washington, hilariously enough, gives Tucker a suspicious look in response, to which Tucker responds by winking as obnoxiously as he can.

Wash immediately turns red. The stop sign flashes again, bright and awful, as Washington stalks forward to where he is standing. “Tucker,” he says through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?”

Behind him, Detective Church—Washington’s partner—looks up from where she was staring down at her notepad, her bright green eyes flashing with amusement when she sees what has gained Wash’s attention. Over her shoulder, her deceased younger brother scowls at Tucker and effortlessly hides Carolina’s thoughts from sight.

Tucker rolls his eyes and gives him the finger too, but when he looks back at Washington, the man is standing there, completely affronted, clearly believing the motion was for him.

Tucker winces. “Sorry, there was a—”

“Tucker, what the fuck are you doing here?” the younger Church says angrily as he fades into existence by Washington’s side. “I thought I told you to stay away from Carolina’s crime scenes.”

“This isn’t _her_ crime scene,” Tucker replies automatically.

Wash’s brow furrows. “This isn’t whose crime scene?”

“Carolina’s,” Tucker responds.

“Nobody mentioned Carolina!”

But before Tucker can explain, Church pipes up angrily. “Hey, asshole!” he snaps at Wash to no avail, “why don’t you take a number, okay? I’m the one chewing his ass out now.”

Tucker can’t help but burst out laughing. “Bow chicka bow wow.”

Church just glares, but Washington practically radiates question marks—and not just normal question marks, no, but irritated ones, with spikes and dark colors, looking physically as well as psychically sharp.

Tucker winces again. “Uh…nevermind?”

The other two narrow their eyes at the same time. For all that they are total opposites in looks, they could be twins in this moment. Wash, with his light blond hair and grey eyes, and Church, with his dark hair and green eyes, each wearing identical expressions on their face: that of complete and utter exasperation. But then a bark of laughter sounds out from a nearby cop and the moment is ruined.

Washington runs a hand over his face, and just like that, the question marks are gone, replaced with the terrifying blankness of someone like Carolina, who always has Church there to block her thoughts.

Tucker frowns at Church. “Are you doing this?”

Church scoffs.

Wash, on the other hand, looks between him and the empty space beside himself, visibly wondering who Tucker is talking to. “Am I doing what?” he asks carefully.

Tucker freezes. “Are you, uh…”

Washington waits patiently.

Tucker searches for a non-weird way to end that sentence, but for some reason he brain stalls halfway through, and the only thing he can think about is what Kai said earlier. “Are you...are you doing anything tonight?”

Impossible as it seems, Washington goes even _more_ blank than he did before, holding onto the abyss with both arms spread. He squeezes it until everything bursts out of him in a rush of emotion that's altogether too complicated for Tucker to unravel, much less _stand_ , which makes the reappearance of the familiar stop signs and warning lights comforting rather than crippling.

“Okay, nevermind,” Tucker blurts out. “Forget I said anything.”

He turns his gaze from Washington so he doesn't have to see the disinterest, first searching the gathered crowd behind the yellow crime scene tape, then turning his gaze back to Carolina, who is currently talking to what must be a witness or a relative. There’s something about the person that draws his attention and keeps it there, but he can’t quite put his finger on why.

“Hey,” he says absentmindedly, “Who’s—”

Before he can get the rest of the words out, he’s hit with a blast of images so strong and so gruesome that they immediately knock him off his feet. He hits the pavement hard, shuddering and gasping for air, barely aware of Wash kneeling beside him and frantically asking him some question over and over.

_There’s a knife, long and sharp, entering the man’s body over and over, stealing the breath from his lungs until he’s gasping for air that cannot come. Blood spills from his mouth, from his open chest, from his stomach and sides and everywhere, leaving him all in a rush, and all he can do as he drifts off into darkness is wonder why this is happening—”_

“ _Tucker!”_ Wash’s thoughts spill through the images, replacing them with a protective wall that blocks out all of the sights and sounds. Tucker snaps back to reality with a relieved sigh.

“Wash,” Tucker breathes.

Washington slowly relaxes when he sees that Tucker is fine. “Are you alright?” he says urgently. “Are you _alright_?”

“Y-Yeah, fuck,” Tucker chokes out. He lifts his head, allowing Wash to help him to his feet, then forces himself to turn his gaze once more to where the murderer is standing. There are people staring at him and the scene he just caused, but they’re nothing compared to the man at his side or the one standing a few feet away.

“Tucker?” Wash murmurs.

“That’s him,” Tucker says distantly. He closes his eyes against the barrage of images, each more devastating than the last. “The one talking to Carolina. That’s the murderer. He stabbed the guy like a million times.”

Wash stiffens. The grip he has on Tucker tightens, his fingers almost bruising in their strength. “How do you know that?” he asks, then holds his hand up before Tucker can open his mouth. “And don't say psychic abilities.”

Tucker closes his mouth.

“Gee, Tucker,” Church says instead, “if I knew it was that easy to get you to shut up, I would've asked you about your so-called powers earlier.”

Tucker sputters, forgetting about the murder for a second. “‘ _So-called powers?’”_ he repeats in disbelief. “You're a fucking ghost!”

Church looks at him as though he's stupid. “Yeah, I know. Boo, motherfucker,” he says in a voice that rings with a total lack of appreciation or respect for Tucker. “But that doesn't mean you're anything special. Besides, Caboose can see me too.”

“Yeah, but that's…”

Okay, fine. Church has a point. Still…

“I can't believe I lost that argument to a dead guy,” Tucker mutters under his breath. He fights the urge to facepalm hard, knowing it will only give Wash even more reason to think he's weird. As it is, Washington’s already looking at him about as strangely as you can get.

“Look, Tucker, you fell down pretty hard,” Washington says kindly, all the while resting a reassuring hand on Tucker’s shoulder, as though he forgotten how much he actually dislikes him. Unfortunately, Wash lets go as soon as he remembers, hand flying off so fast that you’d think Tucker was made of fire. He stands there awkwardly for a moment before shaking it off. “I think you might have hit your head. Maybe you should go see a doctor.”

Tucker jerks his head back and forth. “Nah, I'm cool. I'm just gonna bounce.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help getting home?”

Tucker is about to shake his head, but gets instantly caught by something he didn’t recognize before: the complete and total absence of anything warning him away. He inhales sharply, caught by the idea, wondering if Wash knows what he is doing to him.

“Uh,” Tucker says blankly. He swallows hard. “I, uh…wait, what?”

Wash ducks his head in order to meet Tucker’s eyes. “I asked if you needed my help getting home,” he repeats with a note of concern. He brings his hands to Tucker’s face and gently pulls on the skin underneath his eyelids, opening them wider for his perusal before letting go. “Your pupils look dilated. You shouldn’t be driving.”

And Tucker is so fucking stupid and so fucking tired that he tells Wash the truth without taking advantage of the situation. “Nah,” he says. “It’s cool. I walked here, anyway. Besides, I still have to finish my case.”

Washington's gaze sharpens. “Your case?”

“Nothing big,” Tucker assures him. “Just finding some kid’s missing pet.”

Wash's lip quirks up as he relaxes. “Important work,” he agrees with a healthy dose of mockery in his voice, because Washington can't help but be a dick sometimes. It's by far one of his better qualities.

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, totally. It's just like investigating murders.”

Washington gives him a wry smile. “If that's what you were looking for, you went into the wrong field of work. Private investigators are more known for catching cheating spouses and tracking down people for relatives and friends. Hard crime is something only the police look into.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker replies.

He braces himself at the reminder, then steals one last look at the murderer before turning away. It’s an old white guy, with brown hair, a receding hairline and a weird little mustache. He’s...average. He’s average all over. He doesn’t look like like a murderer, somehow, so much as some kid’s junior high school history teacher.

Yet something about him draws the eye. Tucker doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s familiar to him in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like meeting a long lost brother or someone you haven’t seen in years. It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror and seeing a distorted image of yourself.

Tucker’s never felt anything like it in his life, but it freaks him out. It freaks him out enough that his body is practically twitching with the desire to get away, and God knows he hasn't lived this long by ignoring his gut.

But still, he hesitates before leaving, unable to go without getting verbal confirmation on something he already knows. “You _are_ gonna look into what I said about the murder, right?” he asks Washington, “‘Cause I know you don't believe me, but I was totally serious about that.”

Wash scrutinizes him for a good long moment. Finally, he gives Tucker a terse nod, silently soothing Tucker’s frayed nerves. “I'm a police officer, Tucker,” he reminds him gently. “We were going to investigate him anyway.”

“Yeah, but now you're gonna investigate him _more_ , right?”

Washington raises an eyebrow. “Tucker, when have you ever known me or Carolina to slack off when it comes to work?”

“Never?” Tucker says.

“Exactly. Trust me, if he's as guilty as you think he is, then we’ll find out in no time at all.”

To his relief, Washington’s voice is steady and his eyes are sure, and that more than anything is what convinces Tucker that things will be alright. Tucker relaxes all at once, secure in the knowledge that the situation with that creepy dick will be taken care of.

“Okay,” Tucker says. He backs up a few steps, thankfully not tripping over anything or anyone, which means his luck isn't as bad as he thought it was. “Then I guess I should probably get going if I want to solve my case by lunchtime.”

Washington nods again. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Tucker spends the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon searching for Mrs. Saltlick. When he finally gets back, it's almost one o’clock in the afternoon and Tucker is in a really bad mood. He stalks into the office covered in cuts and scratches, silently hands Kai a bag full of greasy food, then settles down in his comfortable office chair with his bacon cheeseburger and fries and hurries to get a start on his paperwork.

After the day he’s had, he’s more than ready to shut this case.

Sullenly, he takes a handful of salty fries and shoves them in his mouth all at once, chewing on them while he opens the McDonald case for what will hopefully be the last time. With greasy hands, he grabs a pen and carelessly throw the post-it away, thinking for a moment before adding this afternoon's events to the file summary.

_Followed the trail to a seafood place, where I found Mrs. Saltlick living it up in the alley. The owners were in the middle of feeding her the expensive shit. Attempted to convince them she was mine, but she scratched me the fuck up when I tried to pick her up. Eventually, I remembered her mouse and pulled it out, which finally worked, and returned her to her family safe and sound._

_Thank fuck for that. I am never dealing with another cat case in my life. I don't care how easy the money is._

[case closed]

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Tucker jolts awake at seven in the morning with a pounding headache, sweat-soaked sheets, and a terrible sense of foreboding. In a daze, he staggers out of bed and makes his way into the bathroom, skin prickling from the feeling of cold air on naked flesh.

He had the weirdest dream last night.

He thinks about it as he takes the longest shower of his life. Most of it was a hazy blur, so he can't really remember a lot of the details, but the bits and pieces he recalls was more than enough to leave him shivering, not from the pictures so much as the _feeling_.

It was like…

It was like waking up drunk with no memory of the night before and only the vaguest sense that he did something wrong. It's right there, the memory on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for something to come along and jog it, but no matter how much he tries and tries, he just can't piece the puzzle together.

Tucker pauses in the middle of soaping himself up. No, that wasn't it after all. That doesn't even begin to describe the feeling.

It's more like forgetting a murder you aren't sure you committed.

In other words, it's really fucking unnerving.

Tucker shudders as he turns off the water, heedless of the suds still running down his chest. It’ll make him itch later, but he doesn't care; the only thing he's focusing on now is getting some distance between him and his bed. He gets dressed as fast as he can and forgoes his normal cup of coffee in favor of practically running out the door, then starts the long trek to his office, arriving there at a quarter past nine.

He really should've just taken his car.

Actually, he probably should've just stayed home completely, because the landlord is pacing outside the building, and judging by the imaginary shotgun strapped to his back, his grumbling definitely has a target.

“Hey, Sarge,” he says warily. “What's up?”

Sarge stops in his tracks, the shotgun attached to his back suddenly appearing in his hands, almost as though he's finally got a subject to aim it at. “‘What's up?’” he repeats in that familiar growl of his. “I'll tell you what's up!”

Tucker waits, but Sarge doesn't continue. “Okay, so...”

“It's the enemy!” Sarge barks. “They've gotten through our defenses again!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“What’s going on now?” Tucker asks with a sigh. “Did he mess with your mini-fridge again? Because I keep telling you—”

Sarge shakes his head, and the shotgun he’s holding suddenly goes off; a warning shot for Tucker to take him seriously. “Oh, he’s done something far more treacherous than that! He’s—”

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll deal with it, okay?” Tucker says impatiently. He rolls his eyes as he pushes past Sarge, unwilling to hear the rest of the speech after the already shitty morning he’s had. “Just let me get set up in my office first.”

“Alright, but be careful!” Sarge warns him with a note of respect in his voice that isn’t usually there. He snaps a salute to Tucker, one fake soldier to the next. “This polter-ghost is the most devious saboteur I’ve ever encountered.”

“Uh-huh,” Tucker replies.

“His cunning is second only to his ability to work pure evil!”

“Right.”

“Third is his willingness to use all sorts of _diabolical_ techniques to infiltrate enemy bases and—”

Tucker keeps on walking, eventually letting the door slam shut behind him. He's too drained from everything that’s been going on lately to take the stairs, so he hops in the elevator instead of climbing two flights like he always does, all the while wishing he had stopped for that coffee after all.

Kai's not in when he gets into his office, which isn't really all that surprising, since she's not inclined to get out of bed until eleven on a good day. It's just as well. He only keeps a secretary for the few times he's out of the office anyway, and with the way cases have been going lately, that hasn't required a lot of time elsewhere. Most days, he just spends the two hours before she shows up catching up on lost sleep.

Today, though, he's jittery and can't concentrate on anything, so by the time Kai finally shows up for the day, Tucker's practically dives out of his chair in his eagerness to leave.

“Ooh, do you have a big case?” Kai says excitedly.

“Nah,” Tucker replies. “I'm just tired of sitting around watching porn all day and—”

Kai gasps at that, then gapes at him, her eyes wide and suddenly tragic, like a lost little girl whose whole world has been destroyed. “Are you dying?” she blurts out. Then she pauses as if considering something. “Can I have your porn if you are?”

“Why? Your collection is bigger than mine!”

“Yeah, but I can't get to it ‘cause my computer’s filled with all these viruses or something, I dunno. I wasn't really listening when the nerd squad was talking about it.”

“Uh, I think you mean Geek Squ—wait, are you talking about Simmons and Jensen?”

“Uh, _yeah?_ ” she says. “Who else would I be talking about?”

Tucker’s about to explain, but then he remembers that he doesn't really care all that much. “Whatever,” he replies as he backs further away from her. “Anyway, I've gotta go. I promised Sarge I'd do a thing.”

‘Cool,” she responds. “I'll just stay here and watch your porn for you.”

And sure enough, the images of vegetables are back, which means her mind is already miles away. Tucker shakes his head as he watches the bouncing cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, and lettuce, still baffled by the appearance of it, but willing to drop the mystery for another day.

He's got a poltergeist to worry about now.

Tucker immediately heads out of the office and toward the stairwell. It's always best to give this ghost in particular some advance warning before showing up, so he makes sure to sound like a herd of elephants when he’s stampeding down the stairs. Once there, he simply waits outside the hall entrance for the ghost to appear.

A few minutes later, the stairway door bursts open so fast that Tucker actually stumbles backward a whole two feet and almost falls down the stairs. He manages to catch himself, but only barely, and the whole situation puts him in such a bad mood that the first words out of his mouth are, “Dude, what the fuck?”

The poltergeist looks abashed. “Sorry, Tucker! Did I keep you waiting?” he says apologetically. He ducks his head and runs his fingers through his hair almost sheepishly. “I wasn't expecting anyone today, so I just had to tidy up!”

Tucker glances behind Donut and spots a vase of flowers on a nearby table, surrounded by various baked goods and appetizers clearly set out for company. “Yeah, well, you can make up for it by not messing around with Sarge’s stuff anymore. Also, stop moving his furniture! That shit’s kind of obvious.”

Donut’s face falls, making him look so sad that Tucker almost regrets speaking up at all. “But Tucker,” he protests, “I was just helping out! The feng shui’s all wrong in here! And the color scheme on the walls isn't welcoming at all!”

“Yeah, the red’s kind of—wait,” Tucker says as something occurs to him. He frowns and looks around at the brand new lightish red walls and then turns that gaze on Donut suspiciously. “How’d you get a hold of paint?”

“Oh, you can buy anything online these days!” Donut explains easily. “Especially with someone else’s credit card!”

“See, that's what I'm talking about,” Tucker replies. “You can't keep doing that shit. It's just gonna piss Sarge off even more and wind up with him hiring the ghostbusters or something to get rid of your ass.”

“But Tucker,” Donut whines again. “I just wanted to brighten the place up a little! I didn't mean to—”

A low cough interrupts whatever Donut was going to say next and causes Tucker to jerk around in surprise. He relaxes a little when he sees who it is and casually leans against the doorframe, watching the man as he stops in front of the door.

“Oh, hey Doc,” Tucker says. “I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s okay!” Doc says cheerfully. He leans against the side of the wall, giving Tucker that familiar look of nonjudgmental concern. “It sounded like you were busy with other things.”

Tucker snorts. “That’s for fucking sure,” he replies. He scowls and crosses his arms as he prepares himself to sum up the situation. “Sarge wants me to evict Donut from his office for good.”

Doc blinks. “Donut?”

Donut waves even though Doc can't see him. He tends to do that kind of thing a lot. Tucker just shrugs in response and ignores it. “Yeah, you remember, right?” he asks Doc. “The poltergeist? I told you about him once.”

Doc brightens in recognition. “Oh!” he says with dawning realization. “The one that gave you that recipe for banana bread to give to me. And now the landlord wants him out? Wow, that's too bad. Donut seems like the perfect neighbor!”

“Hmph!” Donut huffs. “Well, I'm glad to see that _someone_ around here actually appreciates my efforts to make this building a more inviting place.”

Tucker snorts again. “Yeah, so anyway, I'm just trying to convince him to move to another floor, or at least chill out so that Sarge doesn't notice him.”

“Well, he could always come stay with us if he wants,” Doc offers eagerly. He smiles at the empty place by the door even though he can't see or hear Donut, which Donut clearly appreciates. “Me and O’Malley have plenty of room!”

Tucker shakes his head in disbelief. Leave it to Doc to be nice to a ghost.

Tucker stays there for another hour, just hammering out the details for them and helping Donut move his stuff. Tucker doesn't know if the guy’s been slowly stealing from everyone in the building or if he's just been going on shopping sprees on Sarge’s dime, but either way he's got a surprising amount of shit hidden away. Tucker's frankly kind of impressed.

When he finally managed to detangle himself from the situation, his stomach is rumbling so loudly that Donut immediately suggests he take a bag of baked goods back with him, practically shoving it in his hands even though he's not arguing.

Tucker just shrugs and takes them, then walks back up to the third floor with his arms full of pastries that look fucking amazing. He has no idea how Donut pulled it off, since as far as he knows, Sarge doesn't exactly have an oven in there, but they definitely have that freshly-baked smell to them that always makes his mouth water.

He and Kai enjoy the haul all afternoon long, eating one each for every half an hour that goes by without a client showing up. By the time they're ready to give up for the day, their bellies are aching from too much sweetness and the lack of having anything tangible in their stomachs.

“Ugh,” Tucker says plaintively. He pushes his sixth helping of dessert away and rests his head on a hand as he stares at a listless Kai. If the boredom has been killing him, it must be nearly torture for her. “You know what? Fuck it. I vote we go home.”

“Woohoo!” Kai exclaims.

She's out of her seat before he can even react to that, dancing her way toward the door with an ecstatic look on her face. Tucker doesn't have the heart to tell her he was only joking. Besides, he's also kind of sick of waiting around, so he can totally see where she's coming from. With a groan, Tucker gives up entirely and shuts down the computer for the day.

They make their way out of the building together, but part once they hit the street, Kai going in one direction while Tucker goes in yet another. Before she leaves, she offers to give Tucker a ride back to his, but he declines for reasons he doesn't yet know about. Something just tells him it's better if he doesn't.

He doesn't get those kind of feelings often, but he's learned to trust them when he does, so when it tells him to stop for Chinese food even though he'd rather have Indian, he just walks into the nearest restaurant and picks the first thing off the menu he sees.

It only takes a few minutes to realize why he was drawn there.

Tucker’s busy texting Simmons about what happened with Donut and Sarge when he hears the restaurant door open. Normally, he wouldn't pay it so much as a glance, but for some reason he looks up this time, eyes automatically drawn to the sight.

And what a sight it is.

Detective David Washington stands there before him, stripped of his normal work shirt and tie and clad in nothing but a fitted hoodie, a pair of jeans and some ratty old sneakers. Tucker admires him for the few seconds before Wash notices him, gaze trailing over the rare image, taking it in with all the care of someone who knows they might not see it ever again.

He grins when Washington finally notices him sitting at the booth nearest the counter, pleasantly surprised when the stop signs don’t immediately appear. “Hey, Wash,” Tucker says as he leans his head upon his hand. “What’s up?”

“Tucker? What are you doing here?”

Tucker makes a big show of looking around the restaurant, smiling wider when it visibly makes Washington flush. “Just waiting for my food to arrive, you know? But I ordered it like two minutes ago, so I think I’ve got a little while before it comes.”

“Oh,” Wash replies.

Tucker waits a couple of seconds, but Washington only hovers uselessly by his booth, as though he actually isn’t aware of the fact that Tucker wouldn’t mind having him around. “You gonna sit down?” he finally offers.

Wash hesitates.

After a long moment, Tucker scowls. “Look, whatever, if you don't want to sit down with me, then don't,” he snaps, doing his best not to be hurt. “It's not like I’m gonna sit here crying like a little bitch if you turn me down.”

“I'm not turning you down!” Washington protests.

Tucker gives him a deeply suspicious look.

“I'm not!” Wash insists. “I was just—”

Tucker waits, but Washington doesn't continue, and nor does he respond—not verbally, anyway, though he does physically, sitting down in front of Tucker with a stiff back and an all too tense expression on his face.

“Dude, I'm not gonna bite,” Tucker says, mildly offended.

_Not unless you want me to._

He stops the phrase before he can get it out, swallowing it whole so it doesn't ruin the conversation before it's even begun. Unfortunately, there's an awkward pause where they both expected him to say something, which somehow makes it even more uncomfortable than it would've been had he just said it. Tucker searches for something to break the tension.

“So,” he blurts out finally, “still think I'm a con artist?”

Washington startles. “Excuse me?”

Tucker winces. He didn't exactly _mean_ to remind Wash exactly why it is he hates Tucker so much, but the least he can do is make sure Wash knows he's wrong. “You caught the guy, right?” Tucker asks. “Still think that I'm a fake even after I found the bad guy for you?”

At the reminder, Washington looks Tucker dead in the eye, searching for something that even Tucker's telepathy can't clue him into. “We caught the bad guy,” he agrees eventually. “It was a college kid. The victim’s neighbor. He claims he doesn't remember a thing.”

A college kid?

Tucker makes a face. “No way,” he replies with a firm shake of the head. “There's no way that old dude was a college kid. A college professor, maybe _._ You must've gotten the wrong…” Tucker's jaw drops in sudden realization. “Dude, what the fuck? I straight out told you who did it! How could you mess that up?”

Washington abruptly changes tacks. “Look, everything points to—”

“Then it's wrong!”

“Tucker…”

“Seriously, what more do you _need?_ ”

And just like that, Washington snaps, dropping all semblance of being patient. “What more do we need?” he repeats coolly. “I don't know, _Lavernius_. Evidence? A motive? An alibi that isn't airtight?”

Tucker stops in his tracks. “...what?”

“He was at court, Tucker,” Wash says impatiently. “He's a lawyer. There are plenty of witnesses who place him there, including a _judge_.” His voice softens, but only long enough for Tucker to wish the anger was back. “Tucker, it wasn't him.”

Instead of stop signs and warning lights, images of thick pillows and fluffy clouds appear—soft, comforting objects that aren't meant to hurt at all. Tucker scowls at the sight. He doesn't need Wash to feel _sorry_ for him. Wash can take his pillows and clouds and shove ‘em up his ass.

Part of what he's feeling must be on his face, because the visions disappear as quickly as they came, vanishing into the corners of Washington’s mind that not even Tucker is privy to.

“Look,” Tucker pleads, “can't you just check on the guy anyway? I _know_ there's something hinky going on with him! He's _gotta_ be guilty!”

Washington inhales and exhales slowly, clearly trying to keep a hold of his temper. “This is serious, Tucker. You can't just make up suspects and expect people to believe you.”

Tucker sputters. “Make up suspects!?”

Wash looks away. “I’m sure you mean well, but—”

“But _what?_ ” Tucker shoots back, voice hostile and sharp. He sits back in his chair and folds his arms, ears sparking when they hear his order called, but unwilling to end this staring contest that he has going on with Wash. “But what, _Detective?”_

Washington recoils at the sound of his title, hurt piercing through him more sharply than Tucker ever expected that it would. Tucker pauses, vaguely stunned, as he watches a dagger that only he can see go straight through Wash’s heart.

“Uh,” Tucker says. “Wait…”

“No, it’s fine,” Washington replies stiffly. He gets to his feet and stares down at Tucker, expression blank and horrible. “You know what? I’m just going to go. Somehow, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

“Wash…”

But it's too late. He's already gone.

Tucker spends the next half an hour eating alone in total silence, ignoring everyone from the ghosts that haunt the random customers to the very much alive people that come in and out. He spends that time thinking about Wash, wondering at the image of that dagger, trying to figure out how anything _he_ said could make Washington feel like that.

Then he goes home and composes the beginning of his next case file.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Tucker gets up bright and early and heads down to the police precinct long before he has to be at work, hot on the trail of new information. He's in such a rush that he doesn't bother with breakfast or coffee, choosing to forego them in favor of getting to the station as quickly as he can.

After all, _somebody’s_ gotta solve this case, and if his dream from the other day is any indication, it’s probably going to be him.

They already know him at the precinct, so no one stops him when he walks in and says he has to talk to Detective Washington, though a few cops point and jeer like assholes, including the one who called him out the other day at the crime scene. The more sensitive cops just avoid his eyes, but they at least _know_ there's something different about Tucker, even if most don't believe him about being psychic. Still, it makes it easier to pass by them than their more punchable coworkers.

Luckily, halfway into the building, he starts seeing people he knows. People who trust him. People who see him as relatively harmless.

People like Detective Carolina Church.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” she says as she saunters toward him, cockiness evident in the swagger she puts into her steps. “I was beginning to think you wouldn't come.”

Tucker scowls. “What do you mean finally _?_ ” he responds, then continues before she can react. “And where's Church? I don't seem him anywhere.”

She snorts. “He's around.”

“...and by that you mean he's hanging out with Tex, don't you?”

Reluctantly, she looks amused.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.”

Tex is a ghost of a police officer that was killed on the job. She likes to hang around just to keep an eye on things, and also to kick the asses of any ghosts who think it’s funny to fuck with any of her friends.

She and Church kinda have a thing.

Carolina didn't actually approve of it when they were alive, but that was mostly because of her terminal hate-on for Tex and the rivalry she had going on with her than it was about anything else. When Tex died, their rivalry did as well, and as a result, Carolina has become a _lot_ more open about Church and Tex’s relationship.

It just kind of sucks that it took them both dying for her to finally give in.

“So,” Carolina says, interrupting his thoughts. She grins at him, a wicked smile that has him narrowing his eyes. “I assume you're here to see Wash?”

Tucker tries his best to be annoyed at her for making the assumption, but falls a little short of it. It’s true, after all. It’s not like he can deny it, even if he really, really wants to.

She cocks her head to the side as she gives him the most irritatingly knowing look he’s ever had thrown his way. “He’s at his desk,” she says in amusement. “Working on his paperwork for his last couple of cases.”

“Surprised he didn’t finish them all already. Isn’t he Mr. Work Ethic?”

Carolina laughs. “Wash isn’t perfect, Tucker.”

Tucker scoffs at the implication that he doesn’t already know that. “You don’t have to tell me,” he proclaims. “I know he’s not perfect! Otherwise he wouldn’t always be up my ass about things that I’m not even lying about!”

Tucker feels the smallest twinge at the edge of his consciousness approximately two seconds before Church appears behind him. “Gee, Tucker,” Church suddenly says in a mocking tone. Tucker pivots on his feet, already prepared with a glare. “I thought you _wanted_ him up your ass.”

“Not like _that!_ ” Tucker replies.

Church arches an eyebrow.

It takes Tucker two seconds to realize what he just said. “Whoa, no, I mean _definitely_ like that,” he amends with a smirk. “I just mean, like, not in an annoying kind of way.”

This time _Carolina_ arches her eyebrows, the green eyes she shares with Church making it obvious that they are related. “Do I even want to know?”

Tucker shrugs. “Probably not,” he tells her honestly, but before she can make him tell her anyway, he changes the subject in order to get back to work. “Anyway, I've got to go talk to Wash about something before I have to get back to the office, okay? So I’m just going to go.”

“Yeah, don’t hurry back,” Church says with a snort.

Tucker ignores that with the ease of practice and says his goodbyes to both of the siblings, then makes his way through the busy room, skirting around the desks of the policemen he hates while taking his time to stop and say hello to the ones he’s at least a little bit friendly with. He’s right in the middle of walking away from York and North by the water cooler when the policeman who stopped him the other day decides that it’s ‘harass the civilian’ time.

“Well, if it isn’t Lavernius Fucker,” the dumb-ass drawls. Tucker glances at him, completely unimpressed, and takes in both the dirty blond hair and the slightly yellow teeth from too much cigarette smoking. More importantly, though, is the mind full of silent thoughts, something that only comes from people who don’t think before they speak.

Tucker smirks, content with his own superiority. “Hey, here’s an idea,” he responds. “Why don’t you try calling me something people haven’t been using since _elementary_ school?”

The dumb-ass scowls, and briefly--but only _briefly_ \--his mind flickers with images of knives stabbing deep within Tucker’s body. After yesterday, the image leaves him flinching, something the asshole clearly mistakes as Tucker being intimidated by him.

“Fuck off,” Tucker snaps.

“No, _you_ fuck off,” Detective Douchebag snaps back. “Who the fuck told you that you could be here, anyway?”

Tucker fights the natural instinct to reel back, choosing instead to straighten his back and face the motherfucker head on. “Who the fuck made you the doorman?” he shoots back.

The man’s hands ball up tightly. Tucker’s not scared, but he takes a step back regardless, unwilling to get into a fist fight this early in the morning. “Look, I’m just here because I’ve gotta talk to Detective Washington about something, okay? So get off my case.”

And just to push the whole thing home, Tucker gathers all his energy and _shoves_ against the walls of the detective’s mind, mentally insisting that he back off.

Immediately, it causes the dumb-ass to scowl, which means he must be more sensitive than Tucker assumed. “You think you’re so smart,” the douchebag says with a sneer. “But I’m here to tell you, if you keep trying to pass yourself off as a _real_ psychic, then somebody around here is gonna put a stop to it.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replies coolly. “Anyway, are we done here? Because some of us actually have work to do.”

And without waiting for a response, Tucker turns around and walks away, aiming himself straight for Washington’s desk. To his surprise, Washington only glances up when Tucker is close enough to touch, though his thoughts make it clear that he was aware of Tucker long before Tucker was aware of him. Tucker ignores that in favor of getting straight to the point.

“Okay, look,” Tucker says as he throws himself into a nearby chair, “I know you don’t believe me about being psychic or whatever, and I’m cool with that...I mean, okay, I’m _not_ cool with that, but I don’t give a shit all that much, so it’s alright. But anyway, I still think you’re wrong about that guy!”

Wash looks at him steadily for a moment, saying absolutely nothing for long enough that Tucker opens his mouth to defend his point of view again, something that proves absolutely unnecessary when Wash opens his mouth instead.

“You’re right,” he replies.

“Uh, what?” Tucker says intelligently.

“There's been two more people murdered. Same M.O. Same neighborhood. Reporters are calling it a serial killer.” Washington pauses, then continues drily. “You'd know that if you ever watched the news.”

Even as his mind races, Tucker has enough presence of mind to make a face and respond. “Oh, please, if I wanted to find out about people dying, I’d just go up to their ghosts and ask ‘em myself.”

“Of course you would,” Washington says with a sigh. He hangs his head for a brief moment, but Tucker can tell he’s not as unamused as he'd like to pretend he is; if anything, he seems filled with relief more than any other emotion, images of their recent argument flitting through his head.

Tucker shifts from foot to foot. “So, uh. About yesterday...”

Washington briefly closes his eyes.

“I'm sorry I was such a dick,” Tucker says in a rush. Wash’s eyes open and hold his gaze, causing Tucker to swallow hard. He has to clutch tightly at the arms of his chair just to remind himself not to reach out. “I know you were just doing your job.”

“Tucker,” Wash begins. “You don’t have to—”

Tucker shakes his head hard, his short dreadlocks flying from side to side and whacking him in the face. “Nah, I kinda do,” he admits. He hesitates, then blurts out something he’s wanted to say for a while now. “Let me make it up to you. Let me take you on a date tomorrow.”

It may seem like a weird thing to say after yesterday, but Tucker’s spent all night long thinking about the image of that dagger piercing through Wash’s heart and he’s pretty sure he knows why Washington reacted the way that he did.

Like, 60% sure at least.

Washington’s face freezes. His mind goes blank, no red stop lights to ward Tucker off or green ones to invite him in. Tucker immediately panics, his own mind going as empty as Wash’s, words sticking in his throat until it feels like he’ll choke on them.

“Uh,” Tucker manages. “We don't have to—”

“Alright,” Wash says suddenly.

Tucker blinks hard. The word seems strangely foreign to him, enough so that he has to repeat it to make sure it means what it does.

“Alright?”

“Alright,” Wash says in a firm tone of voice. “You can take me out on a date.”

“Oh,” Tucker replies. “...wait, what?”

Washington smiles, a barely there hint of a thing that nonetheless brightens him, turning his normal good looks into something beautiful. As Tucker watches in fascination, even his eyes seem to change, moving from gunmetal grey to a warm shade that looks almost blue.

“Cool,” Tucker breathes in awe.

Wash fights off a flush, but his fair skin does him no favors on that front, showing off even the slightest hint of color in a way that makes it obvious he's flustered. “I—what are you—”

Tucker’s still grinning when the feeling comes upon him, something dark and dangerous catching hold of his consciousness and sticking in the air like tar, slowly oozing through the people in the room until it finds its way back to its owner.

His grin fades abruptly, vanishing into the ether. This time, he's prepared when he twists around, but his body's still shaking as he does it, vibrating with a mix of fear and awareness as he tries to keep himself from falling to the ground.

_Two people this time, which means twice as much fun. Pity he doesn't get to take it slow, but the people are too on edge, too suspicious and terrified to let him in for long. Luckily, he knows just how to keep them in the dark..._

Tucker opens eyes he didn't know he closed.

When he focuses again, it's to the sight of his head only a foot away from Washington’s chest and the feeling of hands upon his elbows, steadying both his heart and body.

“Are you okay?” Wash says urgently.

Tucker shakes himself hard, but not enough to pull himself from Wash’s grasp. He takes a deep breath before grasping Wash’s waist and gently pushing him to the side in order to take one last look across the room to where Carolina is escorting a young teenager and his parent in for questioning.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Tucker blurts out. “A family member or a neighbor or something from one of the other crime scenes. That’s him, right?”

He looks up pleadingly, desperate for a confirmation, but Washington only avoids his gaze. “You know I can't answer any questions about an ongoing investigation,” Wash reminds him.

“You told me about the second murder!”

“That was public information.”

Tucker deflates. He doesn't want to start another argument about this, but still, he can't exactly keep quiet about this. Not knowing what he does. So he takes a deep breath and continues anyway.

“Look,” he begins in a quiet voice, “I don't know what the fuck is going on, but I _know_ that kid’s got something to do with it. I don't know if he's working with the lawyer or what, but he's _definitely_ guilty of the second murder.”

Wash watches him for a very long time, long enough for Tucker to take notice of how close they are to each other, to realize how the thoughts and emotions of everyone nearby has turned sly and amused as they draw up every rumor about the two of them that has ever existed.

“People think we’re fucking,” Tucker blurts out inanely, then promptly remembers that he's not supposed to tell anybody about that whole telepathy business. His fingers clench tightly on Washington’s waist in something like panic.

Wash jolts in surprise.

“Uh, nevermind,” Tucker says in a rush. “That's not important. All that matters is that we solve this case and put these guys behind bars. They're—” and here he stops to glance back at the kid. “They're…”

Tucker stops in his tracks. For a moment, it's like the kid _blurs_ where he stands, and then suddenly he's a different person entirely, slipping off his murderous mask as though it never truly belonged to him after all. Tucker stares in bewilderment at the sight, completely lost as to what just happened.

“Are you alright?” Washington questions.

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers. “I just…”

...saw something that's impossible, he doesn't say, not that Wash would believe him even if he did. Still, it's all he can think about right now, focussing on the boy across the room with every ounce of his abilities, staring at him right up to the moment he disappears into the hall with Carolina.

But nothing changes. The kid remains normal, thoughts as simple as possible, only the regular amount of worry in his head about being in the presence of police officers.

It's motherfucking creepy. Tucker can't stand it.

“I've got to go,” Tucker says abruptly. “I've got stuff to do. Cases. That people hired me for. Y’know, work shit.”

“More pets going missing?” Wash asks wryly.

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, something like that,” he lies. He lets his hands drop from Washington’s side, frowning at how empty they now feel. “Anyway, I'll call you a little bit later with the details, okay? It’ll give me time to plan everything out.”

Washington nods and follows Tucker’s lead, letting go of Tucker’s elbows with a reluctance that's incredibly gratifying. “Do you need my number?”

That surprises a bark of laughter out of him, allowing him to forget about this strange case for the briefest of moments. “Nah,” he replies, “I already got that from Carolina months ago.”

Then, before Wash can respond to that with more than just exclamation marks, Tucker pushes Washington back and out of his way in order to get himself off of the chair, mind already miles elsewhere.

He's got some researching to do.

* * *

 

Tucker spends his entire work day looking things up online while Kai paints her nails and texts people on her cellphone. He searches all the usual hokey websites in search of answers he's relatively sure that they won't have, so off balance from what he saw that he's willing to try just about anything to figure it out.

By four o’clock he still hasn't found so much as a clue, but he’s picked up a lot of random knowledge he’ll never ever have any use for, including some really kinky commentary about how certain classes of shapeshifters reproduce. So, y’know, not a _total_ waste of an afternoon, but still not even remotely what he was looking for.

That's okay, though, because Tucker has another idea.

* * *

 

Evening finds him sitting on the floor in the middle of Doc and O’Malley’s office. They’re gone, but their presence is still there, shedding their combined auras all over the walls in a way that gives the room personality even in their absence. Add Donut to the mix and the place takes on a life of its own, practically radiating warmth and making the dim light of the candles seem intimate and soft.

It’s kind of relaxing, enough so that Tucker doesn’t feel weird about asking the question he came there for.

“Hey, Donut, you’re pretty old, aren't you?” he asks casually, all the while taking care to not get in the way of the picnic being set up. The candlelight makes Donut seem almost alive, giving him a healthy glow that usually only the living have.

Donut looks up with an indignant look on his face, hands pausing as he sets out some plates. “ _Old_!?” he repeats, sounding deeply offended, “I'm not old! I'll have you know that I'm just as young as the day that I died!

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I know, I know,” he replies. He reaches into the basket that Donut set out and takes one of the tiny sandwiches, making a big show of how good it is. Which isn't hard, to be honest, because Donut always makes the best food. “I just meant that you've been around awhile, okay? Like sixty or seventy years, right?”

Donut seems mollified by the compliment to his food. “Oh,” he says as he wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I guess so.” His shoulders slump as if it only just occurred to him, a mournful expression crossing his face that has Tucker regretting having ever brought it up.

“So, anyway…” Tucker begins. He pauses to pop another finger sandwich into his mouth, using the time chewing to figure out what he wants to say. “Have you ever known anyone who could change how they look? And I don't mean with makeup or plastic surgery.”

Donut frowns as he thinks about it. “Um, gee, I don't know, Tucker,” he says slowly. He scratches his head, head cocked to the side in serious consideration. “I don't _think_ so, and I've seen a _lot_ of weird things over the years. Why do you ask?’

Tucker sighs and throws himself flat on his back. “It's this stupid case I'm working on,” he explains with an irritated huff. “There's this guy that's going around killing people, but just when I think I've got him pinned down, he suddenly starts looking like someone else. It's so _stupid._ You can't have the same person in two different bodies!”

“Well, maybe they're like you,” Donut suggests out of nowhere. Tucker lifts his head up off the floor in order to glare at Donut. “Not in a bad way! But, like, sometimes other people feel like you when you're reading their mind.”

Tucker sits straight up. “What do you mean? Feel like me how?”

“It's just a little bit,” Donut explains. “But last time you were up here with Sarge, I had to concentrate really hard, because it was like I was seeing you on top of him.”

“ _Ugh_. Don't ever say that again, dude. I don't want the mental pictures.”

“Sorry, Tucker!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker grumbles. But despite his vocal dismay at the thought of him and Sarge, he's still thinking deeply about what Donut just said. After all, what if there _was_ someone out here like Tucker? And what if that person _was_ somehow involved with the murders?

Great. Just...great.

The police are completely fucked.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Tucker's dreams are filled with dying gasps and disembodied voices; whispered words that push and pull like waves during a storm, yanking him down into the depths as he struggles to keep his head above the water.

Some are things he has heard before.

_There's nothing in the closet, Vern._

Some are things he will hear again soon.

_I don't know what happened. I don't understand why._

Some are things that have gone unsaid.

The problem is that ghosts have no sense of direction, sometimes, mixing the past with the present and future in ways that cannot be easily described or defined. It's confusing at the best of times and complete nonsense at the worst, words and images tumbling all over each other until it's all just a jumbled blur.

But Tucker has ways of figuring things out.

* * *

 

He knows he's going to have a séance the moment he wakes up with the taste of copper in his mouth and the sight of red stains on his pillowcase.

“Fuck,” he hisses as he carefully touches his bitten lip. A drop of blood falls onto his naked chest and he absentmindedly wipes it off, getting a smear on his fingertips in a way that viscerally reminds him of the crime scene he had a vision of days ago.

It's finally time for him to get the whole story.

And to do that, he’s going to have to go straight to the source.

Unfortunately, calling on the dead isn't really his _thing._ It's not what he's known for. He's more about letting ghosts come to him than doing things the other way around. But it's not as if he hasn't done it before. Just...not in fifteen years or so.

Still, that's better than most people.

So Tucker takes a quick shower and gets dressed for the day before gathering up some of the candles he keeps around solely for seduction and shoving them into a spare plastic bag along with some incense and a box of matches.

By the time Kai arrives, he's been set up for hours and is doing some yoga to relax himself and to clear his head. It may or may not be total bullshit, but it's worth a shot, and either way, Doc guides him through the motions like a pro.

“Now let's try a seated spinal twist,” Doc suggests. “And then we can move into some cat and cow stretches.”

“Sure, Tucker replies amiably, even though he has literally no idea what that means.

Tucker hears the office door open, but he’s facing the wrong direction to see whether it's a client or Kai. She, however, answers the question immediately, by saying, “Why does it smell like goat in here?”

Tucker's offended on his mandle’s behalf. “It doesn't smell like a goat,” he insists as he relaxes out of the pose. “It smells like a strip club.”

Kai raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Uh, no? I've been to a lot of strip clubs, and none of them have ever smelled like this. Well, except the one on Fifth Street, because that one has an _actual_ goat.”

Tucker's been to the one on Fifth Street exactly once. The psychic images he got about that goat was more than enough to ensure that he never visited it again.

“Whatever. That's just the sandalwood throwing you off,” Tucker explains. He frowns and takes a look back at his man-candle, checking its label just to make sure. “Yeah, it must be, ‘cause I definitely brought the right kind.”

“If you say so,” Kai replies. She glances around at the candles on the floors, desks, and every other piece of furniture that won’t easily catch on fire. “Um...what are you doing, anyway?”

“Holding a séance.”

She makes a face at the news. “Aren't you supposed to be doing this at midnight or something?” she points out. She’s right, but only technically—ghosts may be more active during the night, but it’s not like they aren’t around during the day. Talking to them is fine whenever.

“Nah, it's cool,” he assures her. “Besides, I've got a date with Wash tonight, so I can't do it later on.”

Kai’s eyes go very wide, but it’s Doc’s reaction that has Tucker's eyebrows flying up in shock. “Wow, congratulations! You must be really excited after all this time.”

Tucker stops in his tracks to squint at Doc suspiciously. “Wait. How do _you_ know about Wash?”

Doc scratches his head sheepishly. “Oh, I know it isn’t any of my business, but Donut loves to gossip,” he replies. “He’s always leaving me little notes telling me about his day and what’s going on with the people in the building—”

Tucker makes a face at the thought of Donut spying on him without his knowledge. “‘ _Always?’_ What do you mean, ‘ _always?_ ’ You two have only known each other for like a day.”

“That’s more than enough time to make a friend!”

Tucker fights the urge to bang his head against a wall, but only because he’s too lazy to get up and actually walk to one. “Okay, whatever,” he grumbles irritably. “Can we just get on with things or what? Because we have to get this done before a client comes in and interrupts us.”

Kai snickers.

Tucker turns a glare on her.

“Whoa, sorry!” she replies in complete earnestness. She grins at him—a dopey, yet charming expression on her. “Umm...I guess I thought you were making a joke? You know, ‘cause you, like, never get any business?”

“I get business!” Tucker lies.

Kai laughs again, almost as though she can't help it. This time, Tucker doesn't bother acting offended. It's a waste of energy, after all, and it's not like he's fooling anybody anyway. Everyone around knows he's always seconds away from working at McDonald’s for a living.

But if he solves this case, maybe the police will start taking him seriously. Then, he’ll be like those people on TV, consulting with the police once a week and solving crimes like they're going out of style. Then, he’ll be able to pay the rent. Then, he’ll be able to ask Wash out without worrying that he’s gonna break the bank.

It's gonna be awesome.

“So are you two gonna stick around or what?” he asks the others, voice coming out bright and cheerful, eager with the possibilities and potential. “Because it's cool with me, but you gotta follow the rules.”

“Rules?” Kai repeats doubtfully. “I’m not into _rules,_ nerd.”

Tucker ignores that.

“What kind of rules?” Doc questions.

Tucker waves their concern off with an air of dismissiveness. “Yeah, basically just shut up and try not to distract me too much. Oh, and stay kinda still, okay? You don't want the ghost to notice you. They sometimes get a little touchy. And then they, you know, start throwing stuff around.”

Kai nods and says, “Whatever.”

Doc, on the other hand, looks a little bit more unsure. “Do you think yoga would help them, too?” he asks, sounding deeply concerned. “I know ghosts don't have bodies, but it's really great for the spirit as well!”

“Uh, I think they're cool how they are,” Tucker responds. “Besides, I'm not gonna keep them long enough to do some meditation, just long enough to get some information out of them.”

“Hm. Well, if you change your mind, I'm always here!”

Tucker fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Anyway, I'm about to start working, so maybe the two of you should sit down over there.”

He points to a spot directly opposite him on the floor and patiently waits for them to settle there, unwilling to start focusing without being absolutely positive that they're not gonna interrupt and screw things up. Only when they stay quiet for a whole two minutes does he close his eyes and really start to concentrate.

He thinks hard about the scene of the crime, trying to remember all the details that he skipped over the first time around. He remembers the crowd: uneasy, but curious, and the way the policemen swarmed around to help keep them all away. He remembers way his stomach sank when he first got the vision, twisting and writhing like a demon in his belly, stealing away his very breath.

He remembers.

And as he remembers, he feels the air go ice cold all of a sudden, sending shivers up his spine. Doc and Kai huddle together, hands coming up to clasp each other’s, though whether it's in fear or some deeper awareness Tucker doesn't know.

“Are you here?” he asks warily. He can't _see_ anybody, but séances are funny that way, hiding things that are meant to be seen and showing things that are meant to be hidden. Tucker never knows what he's gonna get. “Uh, if you're here, come on out.”

Nighttime seems to come out of nowhere. The windows rattle hard. Thunder clashes in the distance, even though there's no storm outside, and the wind picks up until it's howling, banging and pushing at the sides of the building until the whole place feels like it's gonna fall over.

Tucker remains unimpressed. “Yeah, drama, got it. Whatever. Can we just get to the point already? Or are you just gonna wait around until you turn his whole thing into one of those cheesy horror movies?”

Something vaguely sulky fills the air. Slowly, the ghost fades into existence in front of Tucker, looking just as he did before he died: middle aged, portly, and slightly ginger, though that last one might just be the light.

The ghost sniffs as he looks down on them all. “I’ll have you know, I happen to take this whole haunting thing very seriously,” he informs Tucker. “I've never half-assed anything a day in my life and I'm not going to start now that I'm dead.”

“Seriously?” Tucker replies with a snort. “You need to get ghost-laid.”

That shocks a glare out of the spirit.

Tucker rolls his eyes in response, not even bothering to fight the urge this time. “Look, are you the guy who was murdered the other day or what?” he asks impatiently. “The one that was supposedly killed by that college kid?”

The ghost’s eyes darken dangerously. “That fucking bastard,” he swears. “I can't believe I tried to set him up with my son.” He shakes his head hard, then says in warning, “If he isn't convicted of my murder, I'm going to haunt his ass until he dies in his shitty house with his unkempt lawn.”

Tucker makes a face. “I don't think it was really him,” he says without thinking. He pauses, forced to correct himself. “Or at least I don't think he did it alone.” He scratches his head. Technically, he's not really a hundred percent clear about what is actually going on; he’s pretty sure that a psychic is involved somehow, but whether or not they have an accomplice or is a whole ‘nother story.

“Oh, it was really him alright,” the ghost replies. “And I’m gonna rip him a new one. Just you wait. I’m gonna go over to his house in the middle of the night and make like Jacob Marley on his ass.”

“Who?” Tucker asks blankly.

“Jacob Marley? As in _Scrooge_?”

Tucker blinks hard. “What, like the duck?”

“No, like the--you know what?” the ghost says impatiently. “Never fucking mind. Just tell me why the fuck I’m here already.”

That’s fine by Tucker.

“I just wanted to ask you a bunch of questions about the murder,” he explains, leaning forward almost unconsciously. He looks into the ghost’s faintly colored eyes, holding his gaze for as long as he can before continuing. “Like whether or not the kid had help.”

The ghost scowls. “No, that asshole was working all by himself.”

“Yeah, but I mean. Did it seem like anyone else was there?”

“What did I just say?” the ghost demands. “I told you, he was working alone!”

Tucker slowly inhales and exhales again. “I mean,” he says through gritted teeth, “did it seem like anyone like me was around?” Something dawns on him. “Or, uh, did he do anything odd, like act like he was talking to ghosts?”

“Anything odd? Like what, _killing_ me!?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Like that.”

The ghost fumes at the casual tone of voice, intangible fingers curling into fists like he can actually do anything to Tucker—which, after all, he absolutely _can't._ What Tucker told Kai and Doc earlier about stuff being tossed around was more of an exaggeration than anything else. New ghosts can play around with the senses and all, but they rarely have the kind of focus needed to materialize themselves like that.

After a moment in which Tucker remains wholly unintimidated, the man’s shoulders slump. “No,” he responds. “He wasn’t talking to ghosts or whatever it is you want me to say. He was just...” The ghost stops, a small hint of dismay pushing through all his anger. “One minute, we were talking baseball, the next minute, he was—”

The ghost swallows unnecessarily, and despite himself, Tucker softens at the obvious sign of trauma. “It’s cool,” he tells the ghost kindly. “You don’t have to finish. I already know what he did to you.”

“Yeah,” the ghost replies.

Tucker gnaws on his lower lip, feeling somewhat guilty for forgetting that the dude was a recent victim of murder. He hesitates, then blurts out, “Hey, what’s your name?”

The man looks surprised, then strangely grateful. “Joseph Daniels.”

“Hey, Joe—”

“ _Joseph._ ”

Tucker fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. Anyway, it’s alright if you don’t want to talk about what happened. I can always try to get more answers out of the cops.” Or, if he’s feeling particularly desperate, he can actually watch the news like Washington suggested.

Joseph nods shakily. “Yeah, I’d...I just want to go back home.”

“Can you find your way back?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Okay,” Tucker replies. “Then, uh, you can...go.” He scratches his head and shifts uncomfortably. “Or whatever. I don’t really know how to end this, so that’s gonna have to fucking do.”

The ghost-- _Joseph_ —snorts derisively. “Fucking amateurs.”

Tucker scowls. “Seriously, dude. Leave.”

And with a mental nudge to send the ghost on his way, Tucker is left in the room with Doc and Kai, leaving him somewhat at a loss as to where to go from here. He sits there until daylight slowly comes back, and then, with nothing else to do, he decides to try to summon the victims of the other crime.

This one is a bit harder, since Tucker was nowhere near the second crime, but he concentrates on the small amount of details he knows and tries to focus on the same area as the first, stretching his abilities as far as they can go in an effort to get to where he wants.

Luckily, double murders leave a stain on the psychic world, or at least they do in this neighborhood. In big cities, they’d get lost in all the crime and the strong emotions, but in towns like this, spirits are easy for a psychic to find.

In the end, it only takes moments for him to connect to the people he’s looking for. Slowly, the couple drifts into existence. Unlike Joseph, who was all drama and arrogance, they come in like a wisp or a shade, flowing into the room like fog.

The first to show up is a guy in his fifties, a meek-looking dude with round glasses and a scrawny frame who is covered in blood from head to toe. Tucker recoils at the sight of him, startled by the sheer _newness_ of the spirit.

You'd think he was killed five minutes ago.

Like, _fuck_ , Tucker knows it wasn’t _that_ long ago since the guy was alive and all, but still, most ghosts have figured out by now how exactly they want to look. Some look younger, some look as old as they were before, but rarely do they hold on to their last minutes on earth.

But this...this is just _weird._

“Hi,” Tucker says uncomfortably.

The man nods hello.

“So, uh, I’m kind of a private investigator,” Tucker begins, still feeling a little off-balance. “And I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about how you died.”

The ghost pauses to think for a moment, then shakes his head while looking regretful, one hand coming up to rub against his neck. When Tucker squints to get a better look, he spots something he can’t believe he missed before: the clear outline of a cut throat, causing Tucker to wince in borrowed pain.

“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

The ghost nods mournfully, then lowers his lashes for a second, looking pensive. After a moment, his eyes cut to the side, gaze sharpening when another spirit starts to form next to him. This one is an elderly woman. Probably the ghost’s mother, if the resemblance between them is any indication. Either way, she’s covered in just as much blood as he is.

“So, uh, can you talk, or did he, y’know—”

Tucker mimes slitting someone's throat.

The woman closes her eyes in pain and takes in a deep, shuddering breath before speaking to Tucker with a thick accent. “No,” she says raspily, “He did not cut my throat. But my son’s he cut because he was talking too much.”

“Oh,” Tucker replies. “That...sucks.”

For a brief second, a sad smile actually flits across her face. “You sound like my daughter’s son,” she informs him. “He used to speak that way all the time.”

“Used to?” Tucker can’t help but ask.

The woman nods gravely. “He was killed by a drunk driver last year. Now, my daughter will be all alone.”

“Oh,” Tucker says again.

She closes her eyes for a moment, a look of sorrow crossing her face that has Tucker flinching away from her. Her son is especially moved by her words, and he comes closer in order to place a translucent hand on her equally transparent shoulder.  

It's such a personal moment that Tucker immediately feels like he's intruding. He shifts in place, all the while mentally searching for a way to change the subject.

“I'm trying to find out information on the guy who murdered you both,” he finally blurts out, “and I'm hoping you can be more useful than the other ghost I questioned today.” He pauses. “So...can you tell me what happened to you?”

The old woman shivers, despite not being able to feel the cold. “I don't know what happened,” she says, looking far off into the distance. “I don't understand why. He just...that young boy, he just…”

She trails off, practically radiating her sadness, her confusion and heartbreak, forcing it deep within Tucker’s bones, an act that she shouldn’t be capable of this close to her death. Whatever the guy did to her and her son must have been bad. Bad enough for her feelings to stick.

Not that Tucker didn’t already know that. Still, it’s hard to deal with such a direct confirmation.

“He asked to borrow a wrench,” the old woman explains, “because the sink wasn't working and he wanted to fix it before his mother came home. Wilfred offered to go and take a look, but…” She glances at her son, who only shakes his head. “The boy said no.”

“Did he seem any different from normal?”

Wilfred frowns, then seems to say something with his eyes that only his mother seems to understand. “Not at first,” she translates. “But later, yes. It was like a switch was flipped in his head. Suddenly, he started laughing and refused to say anything else.”

Tucker opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly she says something that has him freezing in complete and utter shock.

“It was like he was another person.”

His mouth slams shut again. He reels back as if smacked in the face by the new information, bits and pieces suddenly slotting together like a puzzle he didn’t know he was playing.

“Like he was _somebody else_ ,” Tucker breathes.

All the evidence and details and eyewitness testimony floods into his brain all at once. The multiple murders. The possible psychic. The way the bad guy seemed to flit from body to body, almost like he was _possessing_ people. It couldn’t be a ghost--no, _that_ Tucker would have definitely noticed--but another psychic, with different abilities?

That’s another story.

“I think I know how they did it,” Tucker says in awe. He looks at the ghosts with wide eyes, then through them to where Kai and Doc are sitting. “I think I fucking know how they did it!”

He jumps to his feet, hands flying up until they wave triumphantly above his head, flailing them around like someone with zero chill. Rapidly, more and more pieces keep falling into place. Like the way the kid from the first case didn't remember doing it, or the way—

“Wait,” Tucker says aloud.

“Wait for what?” Kai replies.

Tucker ignores her, frowning to himself as something very obvious occurs to him. If it _is_ a psychic possessing people, then how the hell is Tucker going to find them? The person could look like anybody at any given time, so technically anyone could be a suspect.

Hell, they could even be somebody he knows.

Tucker shudders, just a little.

No way. Absolutely not. He definitely would have noticed another psychic hanging around before. That's not something you can just _miss..._ right?

_Shit_. The world just got a little bit creepier.


End file.
